


Deliver Me From Evil (HIATUS)

by _crime lord_ (goddamnit_cherik)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Blood Drinking, British politics kind of, Character Turned Into Vampire, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Not Really Character Death, POV John Watson, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Some Humor, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Werewolf Politics, Wolf in sheep's clothing john, eventual werewolf sherlock, not fully thought out, some horror, vampire biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamnit_cherik/pseuds/_crime%20lord_
Summary: John Watson was always so used to being the one with the heart in his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. He would handle all those pesky social norms while Sherlock solved the crimes; that was just how it was. Until he went and died. Now, he's a Vampire with no clue what's happening to him and a strange thirst for something thicker than water. But with his newfound cold mind and heightened senses, can Sherlock stop being an ass for one minute and actually help John give a damn again? Or, perhaps Mycroft is better suited.





	1. The Predator In Plain Sight

The attack happened at night, as these kinds of things tended to do. 

 

But the nature of the attack wasn't what a normal person would call 'standard'. 

 

The mysterious assailant struck on a moonless night with such terrible ferocity. John Watson simply wasn't prepared for the intensity of it; he expected a demand for his wallet or some such. But no demand came. Only the brutal assault. Quick reflexes could only get John so far. His military awareness and battle prowess was seemingly nothing to his attacker. They were cloaked in shadow under the moonless darkness and used that to their advantage, striking swift blows with a clear purpose. After a minute or so of struggle, John was finally tired out. He could fight no longer against this ravenous force of nature. He expected now to either be robbed or abducted. But something...else happened instead.   

 

His assailant...bit him? 

 

And they didn't simply bite John, they  _took his blood from him._ He could feel it leave his body like a flood. At the same time his mind began to shut down, he came to a realization;  _Vampires are real._

 

 

He woke up hours later in the flat. He was sprawled on his bed, sheets covering him. Someone must have found him and rescued him. But...shouldn't he be dead? He literally got his life blood sucked out of him! 

 

In a small panic, he reached for his neck. There was nothing there. No bite mark indentation, no bloody residue, nothing. He searched for his other injuries that he remembered sustaining in his battle against the enigmatic attacker. There was no evidence he had ever received them. In fact, his body didn't even feel banged up at all. He felt no soreness or pain; he actually felt quite the opposite. 

 

He felt  _revitalized._ Like something had fundamentally changed in his...something. He only remembered feeling something similar to this when he was on the verge of battle at the front lines. That feeling had eluded him for so long now. 

 

But certainly not anymore. 

 

He hopped out of bed like a spring chicken and made his way to the central part of the flat. The curtains were open and the tea set was on the counter. And Sherlock Holmes also happened to be sitting cross legged in his preferred chair at that moment. Lost in thought so he was, he cracked open a curious eye and saw John approaching. Apparently deciding against staying in his trance, he fully opened both eyes and stood up.

 

"John." 

 

Sherlock stood there just looking at his friend, clearly analyzing him. Picking apart details like a master at chess. The silence was deafening to John. 

 

"What happened last night? Did you find me?" 

 

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's body as he responded: "Yes, I found you. You were laying in a suspicious pool of blood, not moving. But when I attempted to find your wounds, I..."

 

This piqued John's interest even more. 

 

"What about them?" 

 

"You didn't have any. No signs of any attack on your person. My only clue was the scene being clearly disturbed and the pool of blood. Obviously that would lead me to a conclusion. But the fact that your body was clear of any physical harm...led me to a different one. I'm still unsure what that may be." 

 

John Watson blinked once, unsure of how to respond. But as he was gathering his words, he stepped into a spot of pure sunshine, which in and of itself was rare for London. He recoiled visibly, and immediately stepped out. It wasn't as if it had hurt him, but it felt unpleasant and far too bright. After this micro-second event, Sherlock's eyebrow raised and his expression changed the smallest amount. Taking a second glance at John, he tried to detect if anything was wrong. He suddenly and instantly found that it was extremely difficult to find anything significant about him other than one simple fact that was now jumping out at him like a jack-in-the-box. 

 

_Predator._

 

_Stalker. Hunter. Carnivore._

 

_Killer._

 

But no single word could define what John Watson now felt like to Sherlock Holmes. He had always known that John had killed people before, albeit as a solider in an officially sanctioned conflict. But now...John presented as a honed, efficient killer just waiting for its perfect moment to strike. 

 

He only got that feeling from one other person. 

 

_His brother._

 

 "John, what did you do? Where did you go last night? More importantly, who were you with?" He said this in his usual clinical, clipped tone, but behind his words there was a genuine flicker of worry for his friend. 

 

"I told you; I wanted to go for a walk. I couldn't sleep last night...so I just wandered! And then someone just came out of nowhere and attacked me! I tried to fight them off, but I blacked out. Then I woke up here. Simple." Sherlock scoffed slightly. 

 

"It is far from simple. And so very fascinating." Sherlock whispered that last part almost inaudibly to himself, but John could easily detect it. He cocked his head in a detached disappointment. 

 

"Sherlock, fascinating as this may be, I'd still like an answer as to how I'm alive presently. I was clearly attacked last night...quite horribly as well." John realized as he finished talking that he was not putting a whole lot of emotion into his words. He recognized the fact that he went through a traumatic event and should be feeling strong emotions regarding it. Instead he felt no clear emotion, only a vague sense of what he should be experiencing. Odd. 

 

"I'm taking you to Mycroft. He knows what this is, I'm sure of it." Making up his mind in a split second, Sherlock dashed away and grabbed his coat. John watched him fling it on in with his usual dramatic motions, eyes noticing every detail in hyper focus. "You aren't going to ask why?" 

 

John shrugged. "I think I know enough about Mycroft at this point not to question your decision to see him about this. Damn Iceman probably knows exactly what's wrong with me."  

 

Sherlock outwardly chuckled slightly at John's dry humor. However, inwardly Sherlock grimaced. This was unlike John not to ask questions and moan. Something was very wrong indeed. 

 

And The British Government would be hearing about it. 

 


	2. Cold and Calculating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo visit Mycroft for a little chat. He clears the air, but in a predictably dire fashion. John also experiences the one true downside to being an immortal creature of the night.

John couldn't think about anything else. 

 

The whole cab ride he was staring at the driver. His eyes were like laser pointers and would never leave their target. He also realized that he was beginning to salivate slightly. Noticing this, he attempted to tear his gaze away from the driver and instead onto the London scenery. This proved to be a terrible idea, as he just saw more warm bodies on the streets. Now desperate for something normal, he turned slightly to look at his partner. In a single moment he assessed Sherlock's current state of being; he was clearly unsettled, but also in a strangely eccentric mood. He seemed almost excited at the prospect of John's unusual state. Excited at the prospect of a  _case._ Sure, it didn't involve  _murder,_ but it did involve John, which always seemed to motivate Sherlock suitably. John deduced this very quickly, which surprised him deeply. Wasn't Sherlock the one doing all the serious detective work? 

 

"I see you analyzing me. See anything interesting?" Sherlock cocked his head at John in an annoyingly playful way, like he was curious to test boundaries all over again. 

 

"I know you're excited to solve this mystery, and I know your heartbeat is going up considerably as I say this." John almost wanted to put his hand over his mouth after he said that. He could  _hear_ Sherlock's heartbeat. He could hear the cab driver's as well. They were pumping hard and loud, Sherlock's more so. He could hear and basically envision the blood rushing through them, hot and fast...and delicious. John felt an alien but surprisingly familiar feeling push its way into him all of a sudden. He felt the need and absolute certainty of this urge loud and clear; he was thirsty.  _Parched._

 

"Be that as it may, the trauma you went through is unique. How could I not be  _bloody_ interested?" Sherlock absorbed every detail from John, like he had before in the flat, but nothing different came from the smaller man. In fact, the only difference was that the consulting detective felt _threatened_ now. John was almost pulsing with unused energy that just screamed to be let out. He looked tense and tight as a taught rubber band ready to be flung. He also looked like he was fighting whatever urge had suddenly come over him.

 

Huffing, John turned back to face front, recognizing Sherlock's little unintentional joke. God, he really wanted to relieve that smug, tall body of his life giving blood. 

 

But before he could make up his mind on whether or not to go for the throat, they arrived. It was at the warehouse where John had first been abducted, or perhaps been visited by, Mycroft Holmes. It stirred something in him, but what that something was....John didn't quite know. 

 

The two payed the driver and got out. Sherlock deftly made his way into the warehouse with John in tow. Soon enough they found themselves standing in a slightly damp and dark spacious area, waiting for Mycroft to rear his head. Fortunately, they didn't have to wait very long. 

 

"What have you brought me today, brother? I  _do_ have work to be doing, you know." Mycroft appeared out of the shadows long and lanky as he always was, but something seemed different to John this time around. Maybe it was because of his heightened senses and newfound hunter's instinct, but he recognized the same drive in Mycroft that he now felt for himself. He saw, perhaps for the first time, how truly calculating and predatory the eldest Holmes brother really was. Most likely, even Sherlock didn't have this new understanding that John now possessed. And as Mycroft scanned Sherlock and him, he could just intuitively  _tell_ that Mycroft felt the same way about John now.

 

"Something...interesting happened to John yesterday evening. I am, for once, utterly baffled. We were hoping you had some much needed answers." He said this with a hard edge, like he was subtly warning his brother that beating around the bush would not be tolerated. Taking another look at John, Mycroft's eyes gleamed strangely and mischievously. For a moment, John could swear he picked up a flash of red in them. 

 

" _Oh yes,_ I do know what is wrong with our dear Watson. But I'm afraid you won't enjoy the answer." He smiled deviously, knowing very well that he was pushing his brother's buttons. 

 

"Brilliant, then you can stop being a  _twat_ and just tell me. As much as it  _pains_ me to admit it, I can't get a good reading on him; you know what that means for you." Sherlock calmed down a bit, but was still clearly frustrated. That confused John again, as he had only seen Sherlock playful or indifferent towards Mycroft, even if those emotions were directed mean-spiritedly. 

 

"Well, if you're  _dead set_ on knowing, then I'll tell you." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Drastically simplified, John Watson died last night. But since he died after ingesting vampire blood, he came back from the dead. Ludicrous as that sounds, it is all true."  

 

"But I never ingested any blood! I blacked out while...the attack was happening." 

 

Mycroft smiled again. "Oh, but you did. Because if you did not, then you would be as dead as our grandparents. You've been afflicted with Vampirism, whether you like it or not. And I can tell you're in "Transition", the area in between true death and undeath. If you don't  _feed_ soon, you'll die. Plain and simple." 

 

Sherlock did not look as smug as he had just a few minutes ago in the cab. He looked flabbergasted in fact. "You're telling me Vampires exist? And you're only telling me _now?_ How could you be such a..." Sherlock tried desperately to come up with a comeback, which was a huge surprise to John, who always expected the genius to have the perfect retort in these situations. John had to take charge now, and get his questions answered.

 

"How the hell did you know that I'm a...Vampire. And what the hell is "feeding"?" 

 

Mycroft sighed slightly and fixed his eyes to John's. 

 

"I know because Vampires all give off a unique  _feel._ Even ordinary humans can feel your cold hunger from a mile away. You also act like one. I can tell; your body language is very different from our first encounter. More...calculating. You stand straighter and you look me in the eye like only a vampire would dare to." 

 

Sherlock apparently snapped out of his self induced trance and interjected himself back into the conversation. 

 

"He needs to "feed" you said. That means he needs to consume blood to survive." 

 

Mycroft gave a small noise of approval. "Yes. His body now cannot handle solid food; it is now built to process and take in blood as sustenance and  _only_ blood. Do not mistake me, this new craving does not go away with regular consumption. It is now an urge that will  _always_ be with you, no matter where you go or who you are with." 

 

The realization hit John like a truck now. He couldn't ever eat solid food now. 

 

"What about tea?" He just impulsively blurted it out, genuinely worried about the answer. 

 

Mycroft laughed at that. "You can still handle liquids, so drink as much tea as you'd like." 

 

Sherlock put a hand on Watson's shoulder, now much more grave. "How is he expected to stave off his need to feed, Mycroft? And the more important question I have left is...what happened to his personality?" Sherlock felt no need to be soft about bringing this up. 

 

"I suppose he just needs to...indulge. There is no fighting what he is now; you would be an utter fool to try. And as for our dear John's new mentality...this is tricky." Sherlock only stared at Mycroft harder, seemingly not ready to hear the answer. "All vampires are hunters. This is just a cold, hard fact you cannot refute. As the body changes to adapt, as does the mind. Whatever military leader John Watson was before, he is now ten times better than that. Emotions are intensely limited and pure need takes the fore front. Strategy and a killer's cunning replaces the hole the emotions would have left. Vampires are logical creatures, brother mine, but also full of blood-lust. Any emotion he does feel will be greatly elevated, but those emotions are likely to be in the heat of the hunt. The John Watson you know is now only a facade he can put on for the sake of others. The real  _him_ comes forth when giving in to the thirst, and there is no avoiding it." 

 

Whatever emotional reaction this should have elicited, it did not come. John narrowed his eyes and processed the information calmly. Sherlock, however, reacted with heart. 

 

"You seem to know a hell of a lot about this, Mycroft. Where are you getting this information? Never mind actually. I think I'll find out what's _really_  wrong with him. Could just be an undiscovered virus, or any number of things not found in story books!" 

 

Sherlock now seemed resolute in his desire to shut out all of the supernatural possibilities; John could sense it radiating off of him. His logical mind just wouldn't believe it. 

 

"You can believe whatever you wish, brother dear. But I can guarantee you that you  _won't like_ the next few days at all. If you change your mind and decide to swallow your pride, I'll be in touch." 

 

And with that final ominous sentence, Mycroft slipped back into the darkness and was clearly gone. Sherlock took no time to grab John's wrist and lead him back to the street. But as they were waiting for a cab, the detective couldn't shake off the icy cold feeling he got when he touched John's skin.    

 

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for all the exposition in this chapter, It'll be more action oriented soon I promise!


	3. In Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tests out some theories. John gets a text.

Not a word was spoken during the ride back. 

 

Only occasional glances and the odd grimace from Sherlock. He seemed to be heavily deliberating their new scenario. 

 

The flat was the same as they had left it, except for one Ms. Hudson standing in the kitchen pouring tea. 

 

"It's about time you got back, the tea's almost cold." She was her usual charming but fussy self, which led John to smile slightly. Knowing he could still drink tea he gratefully picked up his designated cup, while Sherlock ran about frantically. He grumbled under his breath, not finding what he was looking for apparently. John, meanwhile, took his usual seat. 

 

"Where is it? Where the  _hell_ is my syringe?" 

 

Ms. Hudson's ears perked up slightly when he brushed past her. "Oh Sherlock. I moved all your chemistry things into your room. They were crowding the space in the drawers!" 

 

In response Sherlock only grumbled louder. John picked up something along the lines of 'had to steal it from Anderson', and 'was probably expensive'. John could hear his friend rifling through his room with reckless abandon, a few objects hitting the walls with a loud clang. Eventually Sherlock's disembodied voice examined loudly in success. He bolted out into the living room holding his syringe. 

 

"Don't scream please, it'll only take a second." 

 

Before John could so much as mutter a reply the consulting detective plunged it into his arm. Surprisingly, John didn't scream, but instead glared at Sherlock, a tiny gasp escaping his mouth. "Ow." 

 

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and finished extracting his blood sample. "You wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise." He took a short breath. "And I need a sample to determine the real cause of your...unusual symptoms." John rolled his eyes and clamped down on his small injury. Ms. Hudson fortunately was in the other room when this had occurred. Seeing Sherlock holding the vial of blood, however, piqued her interest. 

 

"Tell me you didn't..." Sherlock smiled a little at her. 

 

"I did. The game is on. Albeit, a different  _type_ of game." He swished the little vial childishly and ran off to his room to test out some of the theories that were brewing in his head. John and Ms. Hudson locked eyes for a minute and had a mutual understanding. However, the moment was interrupted by a strange look coming over the landlord's face. It appeared to be one of revulsion mixed with confusion. 

 

"John dear...what happened to you? Why won't Sherlock tell me what happened to you last night?" A kind of sadness was present in her eyes, although some curiosity was also there. 

 

"Sherlock...doesn't know. I think that might scare him a little. But he'll figure it all out, I know he will. He just...needs time. To process." He said all this in the detective's usual clinical tone, although he didn't intend for it to come off that way. 

 

Ms. Hudson balked a little, vaguely startled by his emotionless delivery. "I see. Well I hope he figures it out real soon." John could almost hear the next line:  _"I hope he fixes you."_

 

 

...

 

 

It had been a couple hours and it was only getting more and more crazy in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock loudly swore when something went wrong, scaring their landlord every time. She kept badgering him to eat but he always brushed off her advances, saying he'll eat once the mystery is solved. John was maintaining a calm facade in the living room, but was inwardly exasperated at every snide remark and every blood sample Sherlock took.  With every bit of blood taken, a little more of his new otherness took the forefront. The "urge" as Mycroft had called it started to become noticeable and annoying; it was similar to an itch you couldn't scratch. 

 

" _No, dammit!_ That was my favorite theory!" John could hear a thud; most likely Sherlock smashing his fists onto his desk. Sherlock came skulking out of his room, a cold rage on his face. "It's not an undiscovered pathogen nor a parasite...and I already ruled out bacterial infection..." He trailed off, seemingly defeated. Until a moment later. "But I haven't tested a  _fungus!_ Genius!" He dashed back into his room with a grin and a newfound purpose. 

 

John was about to get up and tell him to call off the search for a mundane explanation...but his phoned pinged in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw who it was:  _Mycroft._ How the hell did he get his number? Oh it didn't matter, he probably had every person's number. 

 

It simply read:  _Meet me at Covent Garden now. We have much to discuss._

 

Somehow John wasn't surprised. Mycroft had seemed more interested in him from the get go, rather than his own brother. But John pushed that out of his mind and concentrated on making it from point A to point B. It became increasingly difficult as more and more people got on the underground carriage, however. It felt stifling, having all these people around him. He felt empty and hollow, and the only thing that could fill him up again was talking on its phone right next to him. 

 

_Please mind the gap._

 

The sudden, automated underground voice startled John out of his stupor and enabled him to make his way out of the station. And as if it had taken no time at all, he was in Covent Garden. Normally he would be feeling an excited jump in his throat and childlike wonder at seeing the Garden, but instead all he felt was the same black abyss in his stomach. It was beginning to be too much for him; he hadn't eaten in almost a full day now. His new environment was full to bursting with people, never mind that it was getting darker. 

 

But, his savoir came in the most unexpected of people.  _Mycroft Holmes._ His pinstriped suit was immaculate as ever, but there was something different about the elder Holmes sibling this time. His eyes held a darker, more intriguing twinkle about them, and his body language was akin to a tiger ready to pounce. His voice even felt like a contented purr. 

 

"You know why you're here presently, I presume?" 

 

"Um, yeah. You want to discuss what Sherlock wouldn't believe?" At Watson's response Mycroft's eyes changed minutely to express satisfaction. 

 

"Why yes. I think you're quick enough to realize that what I said was true. You are of a different breed now, much to my brother's disbelief, and I want to extend a hand where he won't. You see, my  _dear_ Sherlock has always been one for the logical train of thought. He struggles with metaphor, allusions to mythology, and other things of the sort. Though I doubt those things come into play with the type of mysteries you both solve." He stops to take a breath and John takes this moment to respond. 

 

"Sure, he struggles with that. But what does that have to do with my...thing?"

 

"He won't help you, is what I am getting at. You need someone to guide you through this process, whether you appreciate that or not. I am here to do what my brother will not; I wish to help you." 

 

The army doctor was stunned. Mycroft Holmes wanted  _to help him?_ Which alternate universe had he entered this time? But, despite all his thoughts suggesting otherwise, his heart yearned for control and companionship. Something Sherlock just couldn't give him now. 

 

"And how would you be helping me exactly?" 

 

Mycroft only smiled, reminding John of a shark about to catch its prey. 

 

"I'm so glad you asked."  


End file.
